


His Kingdom Come

by Lumbumtre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandonment, Abduction, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumbumtre/pseuds/Lumbumtre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was a man who was not to be messed with, especially after his best mate's death. That is, until one cold January night when he was stolen away, and Sherlock Holmes is left to not only save him after his own three years of hell, rendering him weak, but to tell John the truth in a way that John will believe him.<br/>Multiple POV's.<br/>Jumps back and forth in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loyalnerdwp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/gifts).



> Here's my first ever AO3 fiction! Here we go!
> 
> Please don't hate me if I misspell things, or use too many commas (I REALLY like commas), or anything like that. Also PLEASE let me know if I stray too far from character, if something doesn't make sense, or I've made a mistake (tense switch, etc.). Thanks!
> 
> A big, huge thanks to LoyalNerdWP! <3 I'm forever your slave now! ;)

John’s POV

 

January 15, 2015; 22:14.

 

It was a cold and dreary night on January fifteenth. It was late when I left the flat, but the rubbish needed taking out. As soon as I stepped over to the side where the bins were kept, a shiver, not due to the cold, ran down my spine. Someone was in the dark with me. Though Sherlock had been dead a little under three years then, I had still kept my gun hidden against the small of my back. Better safe than sorry and Sherlock’s daemons continued to hunt after his death. Quietly, I dropped the trash to the side and pulled out the Browning, pointing it towards where I’d last heard movement. I cleared my throat, waiting.

Nothing.

After about five minutes of staring into the dark, I tentatively reached out, until I concluded that nothing was ever there after all. I shakily exhaled in relief and finished what I had come outside to do.

Back inside, I padded into the kitchen and made myself tea. My nerves were still quite shaken, and the hot beverage always seemed to help.

Following Sherlock’s death, I seemed to be constantly on edge. My therapist, Ella, was just waiting for me to slip up, so she could then diagnose me with Paranoid Schizophrenia. How lovely.

I was a nice person before the suicide, according to her, but with Sherlock’s death, I had hardened. The worst part was that she was right for once. I was not the kind, friendly John Watson anymore; I was not allowed to be. I had to keep this I'm-a-bastard-and-don't-even-think-of-looking-at-me-before-I-punch-your-face-in front up against everyone because they thought I was crazy. I apparently talked to no one all the time, but it was not /my/ fault they were all blind. I was obviously talking to Sherlock, who was standing right next to me. Now, I understood that Sherlock was, in fact, very much dead and gone, but who was to say his spirit wasn’t there beside me?

My therapist also thought I had started drinking too much, that I was turning to alcohol to repress my memory from /the/ day. True, I had started drinking more than I’d used to, but who was she to say I turned fully alcoholic?

No one understood me anymore. I had no job, no friends, and honestly, after Sherlock’s passing, no life. I only lived off the occasional conversation with Sherlock’s ghost. That wasn’t much.

After I finished my tea, which I had spiked with a little scotch, I shuffled off to bed like an old man, slowly and painfully, my leg acting up worse than normal. I only caught a couple hours due to nightmares.

Once Sherlock had entered my life, my limp, my tremor, and my nightmares vanished. He was like the perfect cure every doctor could wish for, for their patients. My life became normal again; well, only so normal as it can get living with a Holmes.

I was very slow about getting up the following morning, my leg growing increasingly painful. After a quick shower, I hobbled downstairs and into the kitchen. My first destination was the alcohol cabinet. I thought that a small swig would perk me up, but the liquor had no effect on the insistent pain.

As I went to throw the empty beer bottle away, I had the odd sense I was being watched again.


	2. Seven Devils of the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV as John is taken in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted chapter 1 a little under 12 hours ago, an it has a bit over 200 hits already! Thanks everyone! 
> 
> Please catch any mistakes if found so I can fix them! :)

Sherlock's POV

 

January 15, 2015; 20:01.

 

I was a broken shell of the great man that once was. I was once on top. Once brilliant, above the careless humanity of people. Then, over the course of three years, I became more human than anyone would have believed possible.

It had been almost three years since my "death". Almost three years since I stood on that roof top, looking down. Almost three years since I had talked to John. Too long.

I had decided a long time ago that, within the confinement of Death's grip, there were seven devils that haunted me; Sentiment, Angst, Jealousy, Survival, Pain, Desire, and Loss. These caused me to become a hollow shadow of the genius I was.

First; Sentiment. I missed John. I wished to be back by his side, to be able to dry his tears, to be able to remove the ever prominent bottle in his grasp.

Then there was Angst. I feared for John. I feared that if I failed, Moran would destroy him. I couldn't allow that.

Jealousy; I was incredibly jealous of the broken life John had been able to lead. At least he could walk in the open and not have to pretend to be someone else. I wished for that freedom.

Survival; Surviving was an issue. There was, for the longest time, no place I could comfortably hide, and even then mustering up the resources I needed was even harder. Food was scarce to come across. With my death, all my money had been deposited to John, as it said to do in my will, and I simply could not bring myself to be kind enough to inform Mycroft that I was alive.

Pain; I physically hurt being away from John for so long. I felt our distance right where my heart should have been. I finally understood what Moriarty meant when he said he'd burn the heart out of me. He /knew/ that his death would isolate me from John, and that that would hurt me worse than anything else.

Desire; I would have traded anything to be again with John. Anything.

And finally Loss. It felt like I wasn't the dead man, that it was I who had lost John, not the other way around.

It was a cold night when I took up camp in the attic across 221B. I sat by the window, eagerly watching in case John came out. And he did not disappoint. He briefly limped out to take the rubbish out. It seemed that he had another episode by the bins, as he pulled out his gun and stood waiting for an attack. I'd snuck in Ella's office the other day and read through her notes. She was pretty sure John had gone off the deep end, thanks to grief and alcohol. It seemed that she was right for once, and that broke my heart.

All the next day I spent looking out that small little attic window watching for signs of John, and hoping I was not going to be discovered. The entire day John kept some kind of alcohol in hand, and kept looking around like a hunted animal. It was very odd behaviour for him, I will admit.

Around eleven o'clock, I finally succumbed to the cold, getting up from my perch in search of a blanket, a jacket, anything; something to warm up my frail form. After thirty minutes and forty-two seconds of searching -I may have been ill, weak, and over all unwell, but my mind was still sharp- I took up my seat up by the miniature window once more, armed with an old, heavy, dusty quilt. Aside from being a starving man, I felt comfortable for the first time in months, especially knowing that John was only a street's length away. 

I was still sitting in the poor lighting late, late (early morning, really) that night when I saw John's unconscious body being carried out by a figure I couldn't distinguish.

Quickly, I pulled on my coat and scarf, before pausing to grab the gun I had acquired almost three years ago.


	3. Kneel Before the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we begin to understand...or do we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, know it's been awhile! Been cut up under summer stuff, sorry! Hope this tid-bit makes up for it. More notes at the end!

Moran’s POV

 

January 12, 2015; 14:39.

 

I’d been watching John for a week, waiting for Sherlock to tell him of his lie. But Sherlock never did, which was very interesting, all the more as he kept moving locations close and closer to 221B. Finally I got impatient on day seven and barked for one of Moriarty’s old, let’s say, workers. In stepped a very timid drug-dealer named Lucy McPelle. She was one of my favourite ‘workers’. No matter whom, it was time to work.

Lucy was only twelve when I found her on the streets selling any range of heavy drugs, from Marijuana to Heroin, she gave it all. An orphan, she’d been in the risky business since she was eight. She had short, pixie-style auburn hair that got longer the closer it came towards her face. She had amazing ivy-coloured eyes and a splash of faint freckles across her tan skin. 

I don’t know why I liked her so much, aside from her ferocity when it came to making a deal. When drugs and money weren’t in the equation, she was a completely different person. Perhaps I admired her separation of work and home. Or maybe it was the way she didn’t scream when I took her, chained and beaten. God, how I loved to touch her beautiful young body, still growing, maturing. 

“Lucy,” I purred. Her head instantly snapped up, and she bit her lip. In anxiety? God, I hoped so. How I did love her reactions! I used to bring my inferiors to almost the point of death, back in the Queen’s military, just for an ounce of the fear I could have, at any moment, gained from McPelle thanks a single glance.

“Y-yes sir?” She choked out. My, my! How it seemed I had broken the tough little fourteen-year-old; once a great dealer, whom had presided over even the roughest of criminals in London, became a shaking, sniveling child in my very presence.

I shifted and motioned towards my lap. “McPelle, why don’t you come and take a seat? Sebby’s got a request for you.”

Her hands instantly clenched hard, but she did as commanded. I made very sure that she was sitting on top of my erection, which had sprouted due to her lovely presence.

“Now, dear,” I breathed in her ear, brushing away her short hair so I could take a nibble. “There’s something I need you to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think of Lucy? I promise once my schedule begins to clear up, the chapters will be coming more quickly (I hope!). Also I'd like to let you all know the chapters will be getting longer, and, well...you'll see! Love you all! 
> 
>  
> 
>    
> So here's what I'd imagine Lucy to look like^
> 
> (Also, what do you think of my photo-editing? ;D )


	4. Breathe, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy's POV. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry! I know, too long! But I had a lot of summer stuff going on, including a foot injury and Independence Day here in America. Do you forgive me? :(
> 
> I hope this makes up for it. There is more to Lucy's POV, but it's still a bit shaky, so consider this part one. I just wanted to post. :)
> 
> Again, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, let me know if you see any mistakes, inconsistencies, etc. Cheers!

Lucy’s POV

 

January 12, 2015; 14:41.

 

I cringed when Moran hollered for one of us ‘workers’, as he referred to us. I felt that was such a strange term for us slaves, but hey!, the man /was/ mentally deranged.

Moran was the one who found me on the streets, buying any drugs I could with the last of parents’ money to be resold at a much higher price. Most of my profits went to either getting more substances, or keeping my little sister in an all-girl’s boarding school. I tried my best to support Gray, but after being kidnapped by Moran, all my income stopped. I found out four months later, after being made Moran’s personal sex slave, that when payment stopped going to the school, my dear Gray was kicked out, and didn’t last four weeks on the streets. They found her body in the Thames one late summer’s night. She had starved to death, and a couple of the other homeless had moved her body to a more convenient place, for them, at least. If it weren’t for Moriarty’s cracked system, my would-be nine-year-old sister would have lived, and /thrived/. It wasn’t fair.

I took a shallow breath and stepped into the room, head down, and eyes on anything but that /monster/. He must have sensed my discomfort, because he murmured in his sickly-sweet voice my first name like it was a piece of hard candy, to be rolled around between tongue and teeth. It was disgusting. 

I had no other option to but to look up into his hard, insane eyes. The feeling of terror that crashed over me was nothing new; that happened every time I looked anywhere near his face.

I had barely managed to choke out a “Yes sir?” before hatred washed over me. I loathed him! He destroyed my sister, he was the one responsible. /He/ was the one who stole me from my fate, and mangled it.

I hated drug dealing. I never meant to be messed up in that kind of stuff. I was a good kid. Before Mum and Dad’s death, I was an amazing artist, and probably would have gone far into the art world. But then they died in a freak car accident, and Gray and I fled to the streets. After about a week and a half, I decided I couldn’t let my only family, and best mate, wither away under the harsh life of homelessness. I soon found the cheapest, yet most stable boarding school I could, said my goodbyes, and began to work for her life. I wrote Gray letters every so often, but she could never track me down to make a return of her own writings. 

Gray was a great writer, absolutely fantastic, even from an early age. She would have been a novelist one day.

We were both talented children, destined to go far in life, until one Sherlock Holmes decided to, on one of his mighty adventures, dart across the street, causing Mum and Dad to swerve and hit another vehicle going the other direction. He was also apparently higher than a kite, if you get my drift. Funny, that was before he met Dr. Watson. I read /all/ about them in the papers, whenever I could pick them up. I could not say I wasn’t at least a little pleased about Mr. Holmes’s death; after all, he was the reason my family died. I did feel bad for the supposedly kind Dr. Watson, whom seemed really tormented thereafter. He became a drunk, too, or so I had heard. Pity.

“McPelle, why don’t you come and take a seat? Sebby’s got a request for you,” Moran shifted and pointed to his newly-erect lap. My fists immediately clenched, and I barely kept from gagging. I stiffly did as he demanded, feeling completely uncomfortable as his cock pressed up against me through his cargo pants.

“Now, dear,” He breathed in my ear, brushing his large hands across my hair so he could bend down and bite my upper jaw. 

“There’s something I need you to do. I need you to go and find me Dr. John Watson, and bring him here. Got it?” I gave him slight nod, and he turned my head to brush his lips across mine. I had to fight every urge in my body to slap him across his vile face as he began to move his hands lower. Suddenly, he stopped and threw me off his lap. My head crashed hard against the stone floor.

He stood, and walked over me, towards the nearest window. “Work to do, we can finish this later. Be gone!” I quickly scrambled off the cold ground and hurried out of his control room, glad to be spared for once.


	5. Time to Run Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short snipet of Sherlock's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry, I know. Dad's been in the hospital, so my life has been hectic. 
> 
> But here's a short little something for you! And after I convert everything, blah, blah, blah, I will have /another/ chapter up...today (hopefully, if nothing changes with Dad)! Two for one (I hope) as a royal apology!
> 
> And I need to mention, I decided to not use Lily's POV until later. You'll see!

Sherlock's POV

 

January 17, 2015; 2:11.

 

I darted out of the building as fast as I could, trying to trail after the car John was in. The gun, soon forgotten. But I was weak. How could I not be after three years of homelessness, abduction, and torture? Quickly the car raced out of sight.

Leaning against a lamp pole, I stopped, wheezing for air. My fear, while it did not ebb, turned into self-hatred. Had I not gone, and looked for a blanket, a jacket, anything to warm myself up with, I would have seen the intruder enter, and would have been able to save him. I possibly had just had John killed/tortured/raped all because I was weak, and crumpled into the cold.

My fist slammed into the pole once, twice, and a total of six times before the pain was too much.

Luckily it was dark, late, and cold, so no one was around to recognize or hear me, much less watch me, the once mighty Sherlock Holmes, sob against a lamp pole in the middle of wintery London.


	6. The Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy's POV
> 
> See what I'm doing here? Breaking it into pieces? ;D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, we had a bit of a scare with Dad, but he's stable again. So here's three mini-chapters, that I wrote while in the waiting room.

Lucy’s POV

 

January 12, 2015; 14:52.

 

“Give me hope in silence; it’s easier, it’s kinder.  
Tell me not of heartbreak; it plagues my soul, it plagues my soul.  
We will meet, back on this road, nothing gained, truth be told.  
But I am not the enemy; it isn’t me, the enemy.” I hummed quietly, as I set about doing the Devil’s deeds. 

As soon as I left Moran’s office, I ran immediately for the loo, and tossed up my lunch. There was nothing to be done about that; that’s what happens when you’re messed with mentally on a daily basis. Your body can’t handle much.

After wiping my mouth, I pulled out my mobile, and began checking all data bases I could scrounge on Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. First thing first, when my plan was to be carried out, it appeared that Holmes would have to be distracted. He was stationed across the street, keeping a vigil watch on our dear doctor, according to our most recent reports. 

Great.


	7. Oh Lord, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV
> 
> Yup. He's scared as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the above chapter's notes. :3

Sherlock’s POV

 

January 17, 2015; 4:06.

 

Where, where, where?!

I sure as hell did not waste three years for this!

John, please!


	8. Welcome to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
> And so it begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the above chapter's notes, and do as it says. XD

John’s POV

 

January 17, 2015; 3:15.

 

I slowly peeled my crusted eyes open, to awaken in my drug-induced stupour in a bare, white-washed room, chained down to a metal table.


	9. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home. Sherlock's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't even bother with excuses, so just enjoy. :)

Sherlock's POV

 

January 25th, 2015; 16:23

I sat curled up on John's bed, face against the duvet, the damned gun on the bedside table. It had been eight days, eight terrible days, since John had been abducted, and I was feeling completely lost. Not even a hair could have been found out of place in 221B, and I was growing more fearful by the hour. If only I could have been sane enough to shoot one of the god-damned tires, and maybe John would be in this bed with me. But no.

Perhaps some of my problem had been that I hadn't slept in three days, not even a wink. Probably not.

I couldn't talk to Lestrade, not to Mycroft, not even to someone as stupid as Anderson for help without my cover being blown.

My hands furled and unfurled in the blankets around me. They smelt like John, and I relished in the scent that I had long missed. The next thought I had made me sit up straight, back up-right. But what would happen when the smell faded, and John was still lost? My heart clenched, I saw red, and my head fell back to the bed with a dulled smack. Whoever took John was going to /pay/, and with blood.

I rolled my head out of the smell so distinctly /John/, so I could evaluate his room a forty-fourth time. Two point seven, seven, six, minutes later, I came up with the same frustratingly puzzling conclusion that I had time and time before. I moaned and tilted my throbbing head back into the blankets. /Where/ could my army doctor be? 

As soon as John filled my senses again, I promptly fell asleep. A sudden noise startled me awake. When I rolled off the bed in an unmannerly fashion, I cursed my damned transport on wasting more valuable time. More awake now, but with a bruise soon to be forming on my forehead, I listened. Ah, that's what woke me.

Mrs. Hudson had been away at her brother's the past two weeks, helping plan and carry out his funeral. Well, needless to say, she had just arrived home and her closing the front door had awakened me from my light slumber.

After dropping her things in her rooms, I heard her hobble into the foyer, with intent on letting John know she was home.

My heart leaped; it was now or never. Get her help and risk being found out by others, or risk losing John by working on my own? If eight days didn't make me desperate and quick to take a small, personal risk, I don't know what would. I scrambled down the stairs as quickly and quietly as I could, praying she was too tired to notice the rushed pace I was going, too tired to realize that I wasn't John. Breathe, she didn't notice.

I situated myself in front of the window, and waited. When the poor, old, tired lady did finally manage the stairs, she knocked and gave a broken "Yoo-hoo," before entering. I turned to see a panicked, disbelieving Mrs. Hudson, her hair disheveled and dark rings under eyes. All I wanted to do in that instant was run to her. Run to her, fall to my knees, hug her waist, beg her forgiveness, and swear to the mother-figure of mine that I'd never leave again. But I am Sherlock Holmes, and those things simply aren't done. Instead, I turned from the window and drawled, "Mrs. Hudson, you're looking lovely tonight..." My speech was cut off when I saw her eyes rolling back into her head. I leapt forward and caught her.

Within ten minutes I had revived strong Martha Hudson, and had her propped up on the couch.

"Sherlock, it's really you?" Her voice wavered and she looked, frankly, horrible.

I took her withered hands in mine and squeezed.

"Yes it is. And I'll explain later, but you have to help me..." Her mouth opened, but I held up a finger to shush her. "John," I continued, "has been taken."

And the lump crawling its way up my throat got its wish; I crumpled, my head in the old woman's lap, sobbing.


End file.
